


what used to be sin

by keeper0fthestars



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, So many tropes, Swearing, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Who am I, for now?, idek, javier pena has emotions, soft Javi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23768629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeper0fthestars/pseuds/keeper0fthestars
Summary: Some kinda light at the end,Stoned, forgetful and thenDrinking what used to be sinTouching the edge of her skinIt's the feeling I getMy palms with sweatLike some kind of daydream, I'll never forgetWhy does it beginBy touching the edge of her skin
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	what used to be sin

If he looked half as shitty as he felt, the whiskey would have done nothing to take the edge off. 

He also knew what would do the trick and all damn day, he’d hoped like hell she’d be home when he got in. It's late by the time he gets there and when he sees her car out front he can hardly climb the stairs and unlock his door fast enough. 

One glimpse of her in her threadbare top, the lettering faded across the front and the thin straps that never stay up no matter what she does, her frayed denim shorts cut so high up her legs that the pockets stick out the bottom, and he’s already envisioned her shorts in a puddle at his feet and her legs wrapped around his hips, shuddering, her heels digging into the small of his back.

He's standing there filling the kitchen doorway, not moving, his tall frame rigid, a bit defeated looking. She takes one look at him and she knows. The air immediately feels too thick, oppressively heavy, as though whatever terrible thing that happened today has followed him home and has settled around them, she can feel it rippling off him in waves. The man is silent on a good day but, she has never seen him like this. His normally vibrant eyes are dark-rimmed and exhausted. Hair dishevelled, remnants of today's frustration still visible. She watches him scrape a thumbnail over his chin, wondering if he's slept since the last time she'd been here. After dropping his sunglasses and keys on the chair and shrugging out of his jacket, he turns back to her, so _goddamn_ relieved she's here, hoping that he'd not simply imagined her car out front, that she's _actually_ standing here in her bare feet in front of his fridge. All at once, he feels the weight of too many sleepless nights and he sees the dark worry it has carved into her eyes and without a sound, he moves and she moves with him as if it has been years since they last saw each other and not days. He leans down and bends at the knees and pulls her into him. His hands sliding down behind her thighs, he picks her up, holding her flush against him, burrowing his face into her neck, filling his lungs with her, grounding himself in her scent, softening into her arms. He needs her. He doesn't deserve her, but god, he needs her. Her hair is still damp because, of course, she came here to shower instead of going home after work. The scent on her skin tells him she used his soap again, especially now that she's learned he likes this and this is why she keeps doing it. 

Though she is the one being held, and he is a few times her size, she is the one hugging him and he is the one being hugged. She cradles him, wraps her arms around his wide shoulders, holding him against her, trying to make herself bigger. He makes a gruff heartbreaking noise that rips at the edges of her heart instantly making her eyes spongey. And then, “I need you.”

She's... she's actually kind of scared now. "Shhh," she pleads, "just kiss me."

His mouth not breaking from hers, bruising in its intentions, her hands lose themselves in his thick hair, damp at the temples from the day's heat. He kicks a chair out of the way, letting her feet dangle as he walks her to the counter setting her down next to the fridge. Their longing and urgency are spoken with fingertips and shared breaths. It is messy and fluid, and effortless as desperation takes over and she starts unbuttoning his shirt yanking it from the waist of his jeans. He wastes no time, nipping at her jaw, grazing the bottom of her neck, leaving goosebumps down her arms in his wake, his fingertips roaming up her bare legs over the creases in her shorts, pressing into her waist finding bare skin there, warm, so fucking _warm_. Wide hands sliding up her ribs, bunching up her shirt, urgent, pressing along her spine. Knuckles brushing down stiffened nipples, she steals all the breath from his mouth, her soft moan filling his ears, and that's how he knows with certainty she is here, sitting in front of him, and not some dream he'll wake up from, in a fervid sweat on the couch.

He frees the button on her shorts, opening them wide, urging them off her. He makes room for her to slide off the counter and step out of them, keeping her caged between his arms braced on either side. Standing bare before him, except for her top that's still bunched under her arms and the necklace with the small shiny pendant sitting in the hollow between her collarbones. Her body is buzzing under the heat of his eyes but it might just be the way he's looking at her like she's his whole world. It is dizzying, the prickly hot pleading of his gaze that makes her chest twist and fray again - the way it makes her ribs spin and tighten around her heart. She wants nothing more than to erase from his mind whatever terrible things he's faced today but she knows that's not possible. The best she can do is distract him, give him something else to focus on for a few hours before he has to go back and do it all over again. She wants to answer his every fucking whim for putting his life at risk every single day. She longs to quiet the destruction that threatens to pull him under, she wants to anchor his mind, help him breathe on his own. She wants to give him two legs to stand on, give him everything he's given her.

Rather than voicing her thoughts, it's easier to pull his belt free and crawl down his body where the soft hair of his chest and abdomen lay open before her, where everything becomes insignificant but _him_. It's easier to sink to her knees and push him throbbing and leaking into the warm depths of her mouth. At least this way, if he sees tears spill, he won't think anything of it.

Shifting places, she is a sight before him, only for him. One hand cradles her jaw, his fingers sneaking behind her ear up into her hairline, and _goddamn_ the way her eyes hold onto his, makes his head spin. The grout of the tile countertop digs into the base of his spine and he forces himself to keep his eyes open so he can watch her lips, wet and devastatingly slow. The warm velvet of her tongue sliding up swollen ridges, along the thick veins to the wide throbbing slit where bead after bead of clear slick spills over. He sees the way her mouth pools with spit making the _dirtiest fucking_ wet sound as her lips close around him, pulling him deep into her mouth again, sucking. He feels the cords of her throat stretch when she swallows and then moans around him. His voice scrapes, tripping over thickened vocal cords through a clenched jaw; a rough _'that's my good girl,'_ makes her whimper, opening wider. He catches a glimpse of her thighs quivering, squeezing together, her breath quickens and it makes him so fucking needy. A string of half consonants and curses fall from his mouth and he knows this is gonna be over way too goddamn fast but he can’t help it. He never stood a chance with her. Not since that first night. His legs have turned to liquid, his belly is coiling fast and sharp, but he won't let himself finish like this, not yet.

Craving the taste of himself on her tongue, he pulls her to up to the heat of his mouth, curving himself to the shape of her, kissing her slow and dirty. 

His hands dig into the soft swell of her ass, slipping further, “Tell me what you want,” he rasps, one hand dragging along her wetness, coating two fingers. He feels her legs buckle and she curses. 

“What was that?” he grins, sliding a wet mouth down to her nipple, licking once. Dragging hot slippery fingers up her ribs, he smears them across her other nipple, before bringing his fingers to his mouth with single-minded intent. He loves the colour of her eyes when they've darkened to this intensity. Chest heaving, her demands are greedy now, her voice is eager and impatient and raw. 

The way he likes it. 

Goosebumps pebbling down her legs, he lifts her and in one swift motion, deposits her on the counter again. He loves the mess of words that slip out of her mouth when he slowly drags his cock through her swollen heat with this kind of exquisite focus, tracing feather-light circles. It's absolutely wicked how wet she is as he slowly sinks into her, taking his time, forcing her to take all of him and _fuck,_ he could stay like this forever. Buried as far as he can go, his mustache scratches the skin between her breasts before his mouth finds a nipple, teasing, pulling. He feels her swell impossibly hard against his tongue, so he grinds, pushing himself deeper, watching her mouth fall open in a soundless moan as he holds her firmly against the base of his cock.

She watches him drag his two fingers across his tongue catching on his bottom lip, before sliding them into her mouth. Her pussy clenches tight around him, her brows pull together when he slips his slick fingers down to touch her again, sticky and throbbing and hot, knowing how easily she will come undone for him.

“Javi," her voice pleading, tight and broken, _"Oh fuck,_ I’m-," and a single deep thrust punches the remaining words right out of her head. Her nails dig into his shoulders, the ragged gasp she gives him makes him grin, arousal curling hot and tight in his stomach.

“F... uck,” is all she can stutter, so he slips his tongue into her mouth, pulling hers out, sucking, teeth nipping. Somewhere in his head he still has one last shred of sanity, "Open your eyes, Mija," he forces through gritted teeth, "I wanna see what I ...do to you."

With one large hand over the small of her back anchoring himself to her, he slides his other hand up the outside of her leg, finding her knee. Bending it up, pressing her open, the new angle makes her cry out filling his senses with the sweetest filthiest moan, so fucking desperate for more.  
"G-od," he rasps with each thrust, "you're so..beautif-ul like this.. _so fucking beautiful._ "

Her back arches, bracing all her weight on his cock allowing his heavy thrusts to drag through every inch of her, bruising in their focus, deliberate, splitting her in two, forcing her over the edge. And he doesn't stop when he tells her to cum for him. When the air burns in his lungs and his vision goes blurry, he doesn't stop when her sobs, fierce and sharp pull him over the edge too, breaking, splintering, right along with her, snarling and desperate. He doesn't stop when he's too breathless to think anymore, when his shoulders burn with the effort of holding her down, rolling together with her through every shudder and whimper. He is dimly aware of her teeth sinking into his shoulder muffling her sounds and he keeps filling her and cursing her name and he never wants it to end, because fuck, he never wants to come back down.

Unable to speak, he finally slumps between her legs against the counter, shoulders falling, she clings to him, grasping at each other's air. His forehead falls against hers, then slides to one side slick and flushed. Once the world comes back into focus, and the rushing in his ears has ebbed, he slowly lifts his head and places a wet kiss to the inside of her wrist where her hand is still anchored to his neck. Next, his lips find the skin just above her tiny gold pendant, shiny as the damp skin beneath it, these places that are only for him. He hums against the inside of her knee where his steel grip is still keeping it perched between their bodies. Gently he lets go, letting it fall, both her legs hanging off the counter, trembling and boneless on either side of his hips.

Cradling his face in her hands, she places her mouth weakly on the rough spots of his jaw and then finds the small crack in the middle of his bottom lip. He hums into her mouth, a soft gruff sound, spent. She kisses a slow trail down over the spot still thumping in his throat, tasting sweat and cigarettes as she traces and retraces his bare chest beneath the buttons of his open shirt where the spaces between his ribs are still caving with each breath. 

Wiping a damp strand of hair off her forehead with his thumb, he makes no move to separate himself from her yet. One hand combs through her hair at the base of her neck, gentle, lifting her face, resting his forehead on hers. Kissing down her shoulder, his mouth is soft, making her shiver. 

Wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow with her thumb, she notices that the deep creases between his eyebrows are gone but he still looks like hell. She cups the back of his head, her fingers curling in his hair. 

“Better...” she breathes. It’s not really a question, but he nods anyway, and that’s enough for her. Whatever happened today is still weighing heavy on his mind and he’s too tired to argue with her demand that he _‘go and get his ass in the tub’_.

Eventually, reluctantly, he eases himself out of her, his breath hitching. One hand still braced on her hip so she doesn't lose her balance, he reaches along the counter to the drawer where the clean kitchen towels are. Pulling one out, he unfolds it and gently cleans her up, then uses it to wipe himself, throwing the towel in the empty kitchen sink afterward.

Lifting her off the counter, and setting her down carefully, knees cracking, he collects both pair of pants off the floor. His legs feel pleasantly unsteady when he helps her slip one leg at a time back into her shorts, pulling them up, fastening the button for her, smoothing her top back down. Even then he doesn't stop kissing her until she forcefully points his shoulders in the direction of the bathroom.

Walking through the apartment, he peels off what’s left of his clothing and drops his watch on the nightstand in the bedroom before closing the bathroom door behind himself. He bends to the bottom of the tub to tighten the drain, starting the water as hot as he can stand it and then a bit hotter. Tossing a facecloth into the water, the tub fills quickly and he eases himself in bit by bit. Slowly he washes his hair and scrubs his face with the facecloth. Laying back against the porcelain, he submerges himself as far as he can go, sinking beneath the thick layer of soap on the surface, knees bending to the sides to accommodate his large frame and okay she was right.

This is.

Nice.

The voice at the back of his head reminds him that he doesn't deserve the care, the intimacy she gives so freely. Someone as calloused and complicated as he is doesn’t deserve someone soft and smart and innocent like her. Somehow, she accepts him for all his quiet insecurities and all the terrible things he’s done and all the terrible things he does to cope.

Not for the first time he's reminded the only reason he’s able to get up in the morning and keep going day after day is because she's here and this is the only thing that stops the constant drudgery in his mind from chasing itself in circles.

It took him by surprise when she saw straight through the bullshit right from the start. She could take one look at him and know exactly what he needed, most times before he even knew himself. The respect went both ways, of course, because he is consistently reminded of her warmth and trust. He hates how easily she can make him laugh and when she calls him 'baby' in that soft voice, he'd fucking do anything she wanted. And when she bumps her mouth clumsily with his because she's too busy smiling to kiss him properly, those are the moments he wants to burn to his memory, those are the fragments he tries to fasten together with strings, to press them between his ribs, to fill the holes, where the fear lives. The fear that has burrowed its claws into his stomach and latched itself to the inside of his rib cage. Made him selfish. More selfish than he would ever admit. Because now, she's the only goddamn person he's ever been afraid of losing.

He hates that there aren't enough words in his head even to articulate how much he fucking needs her. He's tried to deny it until now. God knows he's tried but he can't anymore. She's etched herself into his life, slowly, so slowly he didn't notice at first; or maybe, it was the other way around. He thinks it happened sometime after that night when she'd taught him how to make empanadas with potatoes and beef, the right way, the way her mamá did, and the day his chest nearly caved in two when she'd quietly told him about the job offer waiting for her back in the states if she'd wanted it. He'd sat there on the edge of the bed, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten, the line of ash on the end threatening to drop. Some part of him had known it would have to end sooner or later, that these months with her had all been too good to be true. "Tell me, counsellor, you're not actually considering staying here,” he'd heard himself say, flicking ashes into an ashtray. "serving watered down whiskey while those diplomas of yours collect dust?"

The moment he'd said it, a pair of tired eyes turned to him, and his once playful nickname for her suddenly went sour in his mouth already wishing like hell he could take his words back.

"Fuck you, Javi," she'd replied even quieter than before. "You fucking know why I ended up here last year, and you know damn well what's keeping me here."

For someone with a handful of very specific letters behind her name, she'd never responded to his quips, especially when he'd deserved to be taken down a few notches. Instead, she'd deflated them calmly as though she was stretching out the mouth of a balloon to let the air out. She came to Colombia for reasons beyond her control. A lot had happened since that horrible day and she'd never expected to be here for this long, but well. That wasn't the point. 

If anyone in this beautiful godforsaken country understood how fucking risky life here was, it was her. Even now, that he'd convinced her more and more to stay at his place, he knew he couldn't fully guarantee her safety whenever she left for work, but it was still better than the alternative. She'd witnessed the circumstances that brought innocent people to their knees or worse in the blink of an eye. The painful truth was that he could be as careful as possible and it still might not fucking matter. That thought that one day something unthinkable might happen and he wouldn't be able to get to her in time made his stomach bleed cold. It was almost enough for him to get her on the first plane out of here when she'd told him about the job offer that night. Almost. And goddamned if that wasn't the same moment when she knew she'd never leave him. She'd never be able to. She never did take the job.

Since then, he’d spent countless nights watching her dream, curled against his chest, letting himself breathe in this idea of maybe that she kept giving him, wondering which stars had been forced to rearrange themselves in order to create this madness she brought into his life. On those nights, when the moon finally disappears past the window, when his knuckles itch to brush her shoulder, he wants to tell her. He wants to whisper it against her skin, he wants to feel the words on his tongue, but he doesn't dare, afraid she'll hear him. So instead, he lights a cigarette and imagines a quiet life for them. He wants her sleepy confused look when she wakes up next to him every goddamn morning and the smile that follows. A safe place where they would slow dance in their socks in their kitchen, forgetting about the garlic bread under the broiler, nearly burning the house down, rainy days spent too drowsy to get out of bed and untangle his legs from hers.

The bathroom pipes squeak through the wall when she hears the water shut off so she reaches for the Grand Old Parr. Walking down the hall, a glass in her hand three fingers high with whiskey, she opens the bathroom door to find the mirror already fogged up. The humid air engulfs her, making her clothes feel too tight, but she's unbothered by it when she sees the man in front of her, his eyelashes clumped together with water, his head tipped back against the tub wall, eyes shut, hair dripping. Deep grooves of his collarbones, soft curves of his shoulders, and shiny kneecaps are all she sees sticking out of the soapy water and she wishes she could bottle up the image and slip it into her pocket for safekeeping.

"Did you fall asleep Peña?"

And god, he loves the way she sounds, the way she gently says his name making everything inside his ribs liquify, aching and molten. The only answer he offers is a slanted smile, wanting to see her but not daring to open his eyes yet.

Ice tinkling in the glass, she settles down on the opposite edge of the tub near the faucet, crossing one leg over the other. She reaches forward to set his whiskey, now sweating with condensation, on the edge of the tub behind his shoulder.

Finally, he hums. "Just thinking about the night we met."

"Which part." She teases, bending her elbow on her knee, resting her chin inside her palm. "The part where I kicked your ass five games in a row or the part where you tried to teach me how to use your eight millimetre?"

A bright pink hand comes up out of the water and he reaches over the edge of the tub, hovering over her knee. She makes no move to get out of the way. Instead, she watches the scalding water drip from his fingertips onto her bare skin. When her eyes look up, his dark stare is already on her, glinting wicked. Familiar heat erupts across her skin, collecting to a pinpoint between her legs.

_Closing time was supposed to be 3 am but on that particular night, it happened to be half-past one, and they’d been the last two souls in the place. She normally didn’t drink or play pool while working but she’d come to learn that the rules quickly went out the window wherever Javier Peña was concerned._

__

__

_The truth was he was doomed since that first night. To this day, he still didn’t know what had possessed him to let her hold his gun. All he knew was that the moment he’d watched her chipped little dark blue nails curl around the black and chrome of his Baretta, his mouth had gone dry on the spot. She’d flipped a switch in his head, pulled the rug right out from underneath him two moves before that and his brain had scrambled to catch up. He was in trouble and for the first time, he didn’t even care. He didn’t care how many games it took for her to finally close up the bar and go home with him._

“Come to think of it, that was a sturdy pool table...,” the words drag out of him slowly and deliberate, grating across the bathroom floor, letting his voice travel up her legs where he's watching the water trickle down to her ankle. “shame you don’t work there anymore.”

Without warning, he finds the tendons on either side of her knee and squeezes. She flinches and yelps _'Javi,'_ in that light breathy voice that makes his cock twitch. She swats his hand away, but he's quicker, sitting up, grabbing her wrist before she can pull away. 

One long arm snakes around the small of her back, his other arm collects both her legs and she's powerless to stop it, yelping, arms flailing against the slippery porcelain, gasping at the splash of hot water as he effortlessly lifts her sideways, plunging her into the water on top of him. Sloshing water onto the floor, her high pitched 'Javi!' most definitely echoed right through the floor to Señor Ferrera beneath them. He places her softly on his lap, bracing her back against the solid wall, his arms not losing their hold on her. Keeping her perfectly steady, he waits for her to catch her breath and relent, her limbs finally softening, legs bent over the edge of the tub. 

This, he thinks, is all he wants. This, right now, with her. Hair splattered sticking to her face, eyes crinkling with a delicious laugh that sends him higher than any whiskey ever could. This is the only reason he’s here: to be the soft place she lands.  
"God, you're crazy." Wiping the water out of her eyes, she cannot hide the smile in her voice because the man holding her is nudging his nose under her jaw, finding a soft spot for his mouth and the scratch of his mustache down her neck is making her nipples pucker even tighter despite the hot water.  
"Yeah." He murmurs, licking water off the bottom of her neck. "I am."

The tub, now brimming to the top with water, licking at the peaks of her breasts through the thin fabric of her top. Her wet arms shine under the soft lights and the loose straps of her tank top have slipped down her shoulders and bob under the surface of the water. Seeing water trickle down her throat, following the shimmery wet line of her necklace and down between her breasts gives him thoughts of broken breathless moans echoing off the tile walls and his mind fills with greed. The water stirs around them as she finally settles a little more against him, one arm finding the open space behind the small of his back.

"If you wanted me to join you in here all you had to do was ask," her free hand hooks a finger under his chin, sinking her mouth against his, slow and lingering.

"Well, now," he smiles against her lips, before continuing the lazy sweep of his tongue against hers. "where’s the fun in that?"

Light teasing fingers catch on one wet nipple, rubbing a tight circle, before slipping behind her knees, sinking down the backs of her thighs and the sounds she's making for him are softer now, honeyed and warm, like the whiskey sitting forgotten behind his shoulder. A thumb sliding between her legs, slowly dragging along the seam of her shorts before slipping inside the denim along sensitive skin, softly digging, connecting with that spot that makes her inhale, sharp and jagged, and her eyes slide closed, her back arching, languid under the water. 

"Good luck getting these shorts off me now."

"Nena, I don't need to take them off to do what I wanna do to you."

**Author's Note:**

> *This story takes place during season two, and I have no knowledge of guns, but after a little research, the gun Javi uses in s2 is in fact, an [8mm Baretta](http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Narcos_-_Season_2)  
> *I woke up with [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/3BzcdNQWklxkxsj4EFRhec) in my head today, and I couldn’t get it out of my head because the last half of the song fits the mood of this story, hence the title.  
> *It's my headcanon that Javi drinks [grand old parr](https://punchdrink.com/articles/grand-old-parr-scotch-whisky-captivated-colombia/) which is a whiskey that Colombia is known for apparently.  
> If you are still reading this, please hit the kudo button. Feedback is welcomed!


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